The Company Gunnery Sergeant was shouting, shouting, shouting. His voice echoed off the parade deck, while the Marines of House Kilo stood motionless at parade rest outside the company holdfast.

“Seven Hells, if just one of you gets the pox this night from the maidens at Littlefinger’s pleasure house, or pays the iron price instead of the gold price at the Exchange, I’ll take a sword to the lot of your throats,” Gunny Clegane shouted at them.

A half dozen corpsmen from House Navy lazily watched the formation from the smoke pit. The base loudspeaker was faintly playing John Philip Sousa, or somewhere a cart full of chimes had collided with a cart full of drums. It was hard to tell.

Lance Corporal Stark sat in a musty chair by the company clerk’s desk, also watching the formation from above. Captain Frey must be deaf as well as dumb to call this a safety brief.

Stark was dressed in a short-sleeve khaki shirt with dark green service trousers, holding a dark green garrison cap with a chipped and faded Eagle Globe and Anchor on the front. He wore his Combat Action Ribbon, National Defense Service Ribbon, Global War on Terrorism Service Ribbon, Afghanistan Campaign Ribbon, and Sea Service Ribbon.

He had never bothered getting his Good Conduct Ribbon. He had never needed to.

Lance Corporal Renly, the company clerk, looked over at him. Renly was wearing woodland MARPAT, with his sleeves rolled in a loose and wrinkled manner where his veins were not popping out. He wore a set of Danner hot weather boots, with a red dogtag that he claimed had been issued to him by the Battalion Aid Station.

Renly drank a swallow of Monster, then bit into some chicken fingers as he spoke. Grease dribbled down his chin as he enjoyed their succulent taste. They were still hot from Church’s Chicken.

Stark could not fault him for his choice of dining.

The chow hall had served dry chicken and greasy lasagna, with a side of bland potatoes and even blander green beans. The drinks had been water-flavored soda and juice, and half a cup of coffee-like sludge until the machine had broken down again.

“Captain Frey will see, kof, see you shortly, kof kof…” Renley’s words broke up in a fit of coughing. The Monster slipped from his hand and green liquid went running across the desk.

First Lieutenant Bolton, the Executive Officer, walked by them towards the door. He was dressed only in his smallclothes, a damp olive green undershirt, non-regulation silkies, a fluorescent yellow reflector belt, and what were almost certainly issued running shoes.

He smelled like sweat and discount Old Spice. On his left arm he had a tattoo of what looked like a blind beggar’s attempt to paint the Eagle Globe and Anchor, the sigil of the Marines.

“My lost PFT score sends its regards,” Bolton said to Renly in his whispery soft voice as his cold milky white eyes fell upon the clerk. Renly’s face was turning red, but not as red as the Gunnery Sergeant, who kept shouting at the formation.

“… Gods be good, if she’s not flowered when you have her, I’ll have you sent north to The Front Gate to live out your days saluting lords and ladies,” he continued to shout as Stark was summoned into the office of his liegelord, Captain Frey.

Frey sat in an cheaply-upholstered reclining chair, with no back and missing a rolling wheel. Years of midnight phone calls and non-putative letters of caution had taken their toll on the captain, who was at that most ancient age of 32.

Stark cleared his throat. “I have come to make my apologies for the wrong I did to House Kilo, and to beg for your forgiveness, my lord.”

“Words are wind, Stark,” Frey glared at him. “You’d do as well talking to my chamberpot, heh. And where is the hauberk that you were issued from the CIF? At the local pawn merchant?”

Lost on last week’s night march while you were sleeping in the saddle, Stark thought. “No words can set my crime right,” he responded.

From the shadows at the back of the office, First Sergeant Payne appeared. The specter of the company, thought Stark as he watched the Captain’s Justice stride forward, gaunt and grim.

He had been too young to have known First Sergeant on the drill field, before he’d lost his wife. He would have been a different man in those days, but now the silence is as much a part of him as those hollow eyes, clipboard in his arm, and tan line on his finger where his wedding band had once been.

The Gunnery Sergeant had stopped shouting. Instead he made a gurgling sound as a quarrel sprouted from his neck. The corpsmen in the smoke pit now had crossbows in their hands instead of Marlboros and Copenhagen.

The base loudspeaker was now playing “The Rains of Castamere.” A dozen Staff Sergeants emerged through the holdfast’s portcullis and fell upon the formation with axes and daggers gleaming.

“Time for their terminal leave to start, heh,” cackled Frey over the sound of screams. “No police blotter for House Kilo this weekend. As for you… First Sergeant Payne… bring me his rank!”

No, don’t, don’t take my rank, I have another interest payment on my car. Then the NJP was in Stark’s hand and its bite was red and cold.

Duffel Blog writer Tony of House Army sent a raven to contribute to this scroll.

Duffel Blog Presents: 5 tips for a killer beach body

Winter can be full of holiday parties, lazy snow days on the couch, and a few too many glasses of eggnog. Don’t get too comfortable, though, because spring is just around the corner! Are you ready for sand and sun? As you get ready for that big trip to Normandy or Tarawa, Duffel Blog is here to help you with 5 great tips for getting a killer beach body.

Massing Firepower

Workin’ it is more fun with friends! When you hit that beach, your kill count will be higher with an array of direct and indirect fires. Give that killer beach body the love it deserves with a classic crew-served weapon like a sleek ma deuce. Suppressive fire is a great warm up for closing in and destroying your enemies in close contact.

Battle Drill 1A

There are a lot of fancy sounding boutique exercises out there, but when getting ready for an action-packed day on the beach, you can’t do better than getting back to basics with battle drill 1A. Movement to contact or deliberate hasty assault? Either way you’ll be ready for anything by keeping it tight with actions on the objective. Get it together with eight of your hottie friends and make everyone in the amphibious assault jealous of your #SquadGoals.

A Grappling Hook

Nonstop cardio will only get you so far. For the rockiest outcrops, try a large grappling hook. Postcard beaches may be smooth and sandy, but Pointe Du Hoc looks like a rock climbing gym without the crag bunnies to belay. Not only is this a killer core workout, there’s also a machine gun nest full of krauts at the top to neutralize. Not enough? Look into a Bangalore torpedo to kick your landing up a notch.

Have a goal in mind

Getting a killer beach body is easier if you have a role model. Find someone you idealize, like Pvt. Carlton W. Barrett, who was forced to wade ashore in neck deep water on D-day and returned to the beach repeatedly to assist causalities to an offshore boat and help others to shore while floundering in the rough surf–all while being pinned down by German mortar and machine gun fire. Paste a picture of Barrett to the inside of your gym locker, and before every workout say, “today’s time on the elliptical is dedicated to your coolness and natural leadership under direct fire.” Look at yourself in the mirror while you’re lifting, and say, “Looking more like Carlton every day.”

Dehumanizing the enemy

You can be physically fit, but making that toned body a killer body is all about the mindset. One helpful tip is to dehumanize the enemy. Practice these visualization drills on your landing craft: see your enemy in an exaggerated, mutated form, then give them a callous nickname. Remember, a killer beach body takes some work, but you can’t argue with the results.

Duffel Blog Presents: Holiday gift ideas for your favorite vetbro

You honored the hell out of your military friends and family for Veterans Day. And the Marine Corps birthday. And the Fourth of July. And Memorial Day. And Labor Day for some reason. But now what do you get the ultimate veteran for Christmas? Don’t sweat it. Duffel Blog’s got you.

Our editors curated the perfect gift assortment for every vetbro on your nice list, no matter their EAS date or preferred holiday. Don’t forget to use the code ‘heroworship’ when you check out because of course there is a veteran discount.

1. Woobie Robe: This comfy AF bathrobe has the look and smell of a foxhole-tested poncho liner with the added absorption of French terry cloth to ward off trench crotch. And it has pockets!

2. Ranger Up Shirt-of-the-Month Club: Your special vet gets the same moto t-shirt in a bigger size every month.

4. Personalized MARPAT Menorah: You can order hand-crafted candles that resemble all your warrior’s favorite officers so she can burn them in effigy for all the times they burned her.

5. Campaign medal nipple clamps: We know you love to hurt, so bust out your ho-ho-ho with this super moto, super sexy gift that will keep Christmas coming all year round. Kuwait Liberation Medal clamp set currently on back-order.

6. CLP-infused body butter: Impress the armory custodian in your life with just the right hint of scent and just the right touch of lube. Here’s one gift he won’t hand back.

Report: Jody opening your wife’s border while you protect ours

DONNA, Texas — Many U.S. Army spouses and their extramarital lovers are rejoicing following the deployment of their partners to the Mexican Border in support of border security operations, according to reports.

It also marked the first opportunity for the partners of those deployed troops to openly philander in their now spouse-less household, a chance some are choosing not to let slip by.

“I thought he would never get deployed, honestly,” said Audrey Timmons, whose husband, Spc. Jason Timmons of Headquarters Battalion, 4th Infantry Division, is currently serving near the border. “I have been itching to get into some strange for a while now. All of my friends who married into the military say it’s what has kept their marriages going for so long.”

The opportunity to philander isn’t only a celebration for those whose spouses are deployed, but also for eager-to-ruin-a-marriage soldiers and civilians, commonly referred to as “Jody” in military circles.

Chad Stevens, a self-described “lifetime Jody” and mechanic at a local auto body shop located near Fort Carson, Co., home to the 4th Infantry Division, says he plans to “wreck some first sergeant’s wife into oblivion” during the course of the unit’s time away.

“I mean everybody in the country knows this mission is a complete joke, but, yeah this was definitely a nice little surprise,” Stevens said. “Afghanistan has been drawing down for a few years now, so people have been coming back and fixing their marriages and shit, and that has really put a damper on my sex life considering all the action I get is from lonely military housewives. I am really looking forward to getting back out there.”

When asked if he considers his behavior or the cheating spouses’ actions to be in poor taste, Stevens was quick to defend, calling himself “a true patriot.”

“Look, I am giving just as much to the overall mission as these deployed soldiers are,” he said. “While they’re out there on the front lines serving our country and protecting us from that caravan of immigrants, which may or may not actually be real, I’m in their houses, on their sofas, in their showers, and on their beds, servicing their wives.”

Soldiers currently supporting border security operations will be gone until mid-December, and although not a typical U.S. Army deployment length, the mission still allows “plenty of time for spouses to cheat,” according to Sandy Alderman, the Family Readiness Group lead to Headquarters Battalion, 4th Infantry Division and the now third wife to its commander, Col. Brian Alderman.

“The odds haven’t been this high since Desert Storm,” Alderman said. “All we can do is support those soldiers who undoubtedly will be cheated on, man or woman. I urge those folks to just take care of themselves, and just know that you are fighting the good fight and helping make our country great again.”

Gen. Terrence O’Shaughnessy, commander of the U.S. Northern Command and North American Aerospace Defense Command, and Kevin McAleenan, the Customs and Border Protection commissioner, shared similar sentiments in regards to the mission during a news conference last week, referring to the current immigration status as a “humanitarian crisis” and that the focus of the mission, is to “harden the points of entry.”

Stevens, however, remains bullish on the border situation in Mexico.

“There is no crisis, everybody knows that. The only crisis is the stain I am about to leave on all those soldiers’ sheets,” he said, winking emphatically. “In fact, I’m going to be opening a lot of borders, if you know what I mean. And make no mistake, I will be hard at the point of entry.”

DUFFEL BLOG PRESENTS: Tucker Max gives your weekend safety brief

It was Friday in Camp Lejeune, the Marine base in North Carolina, where a lot of Marines are stationed. A bunch of grunts (those are Marines who are infantry Marines) were gathered on the field but not in formation yet, because they hadn’t been called to formation, but they were going to be soon.

The grunts were talking about all the cool parties and things they were going to do, mostly planning to drink a lot, and bang whores and sluts. One of the Marines, named SteelBlade because names like that are cool, said “I’m going to get so much pussy this weekend!”

Another Marine named DragonKnife, said “I’m going to get SO MUCH pussy! And have lots of alcohol and more sex!”

Steelblade: “Here comes Staff Sgt. Drunkrage Python!” The Marines fell into formation as Staff Sgt. Drunkrage Python walked up. He was a good looking, strong man, who had a giant dick, and got laid all the time because he was a super cool Marine man.

“Listen up Marines!” Drunkrage Python shouted, his voice was loud, and all the Marines listened up, because they respected Drunkrage Python. “Let me tell you a story about what I did last weekend, and I don’t want you to do any of it!”

Drunkrage Python: “I went out to a bar and started drinking but the place was bullshit because they didn’t have well.” (Drunkrage Python said ‘well’ like he heard someone say ‘well drinks’ once but didn’t want to admit he didn’t know what it meant so he said it in a way that didn’t make sense.)

“So I got really drunk and I noticed this girl was giving me the eye, and she was a genuine five star, like skinny runway model with massive tits, and so I go over to her, and I say ‘Hi,’ and she blew me in the bathroom. After the blowjob I started driving her back to her place, to have sex with her, and her three other model roommates, and I dropped her off, and went to park. I tried to park but I drove the car into a dry cleaners.”

“I realized I had to get out of there, so I jumped out of the car, but my stomach started gurgling, and I shit my pants right there, and wiped my ass with a Japanese businessman’s suit. Then I ran out of the dry cleaners because nobody had called the cops or anything. This is exactly how this all happened.

“The night was still young so I went to a strip club nearby, and a super hot stripper started giving me a lap dance. Then she asked if I wanted to rent a champagne room and I talked her into paying for it, and we went back there and we totally fucked.”

“After that I realized the model, and all her friends were still waiting for me, so I started going back to their place, but some big meathead dude stopped me and was like ‘hey I know you, you’re Drunkrage Python!’ and I was like ‘yeah so what?’ and he was like ‘you slept with my girlfriend!’ and I was like ‘yeah I probably did but I don’t remember because I bang so many whores,’ and he was like ‘don’t call my girl a whore!’ He tried to hit me but I kicked his ass.

“Then I went and had sex with all five of the model chicks who were all smoking hot.”

Drunkrage Python paused so his story would sink in with the Marines. He spoke again.

Drunkrage Python: “But I do stuff like that all the time so I forgot about it until a few minutes ago. Oh yeah, I also fucked a midget once. They’re going to make a movie about it. It’s going to be the #1 R-rated comedy of all time, because it’s so hilarious, and everyone in Hollywood has no idea what they’re doing, which is why my movie is going to be so amazingly awesome, and hilarious.”

“If you’re going to do stuff like that, make sure you’re cool, but you’re all cool because you’re Marines, you can do all this crazy stuff and never run into the cops at all.”

The Marines nodded. They understood. They each bought 50 copies of Drunkrage Python’s book and a bunch of female Marines went to Drunkrage Python’s website and applied to have sex with him. He only had sex with the hotties.

DUFFEL BLOG PRESENTS: Ayn Rand gives your weekend safety brief

I do not know why you all look to me to give you direction for your weekend activities, much less your lives. Had I the choice, I would remove the shackles the lieutenant has placed upon me concerning your lives, and indeed, those of him upon me.

Sir, are these men and women not motivated to keep safe by their own interest? What strength have my cautions against their own instinct of self-preservation? Further, how might you defend your insistence to the troops in avoiding the excess of alcohol, while your Facebook account shows you naked and drunk during your stay at the Academy?

Alas, the detestable authority over me forces my hand.

Men, women, Marines: as you decide the course your weekend shall take you, make choices by your own free will, and serve neither master nor god. Satisfy your urges for drink (though, preferably, without excess exuberance), and consider with appropriate conscionability your willingness to drive thereafter. Do not compel another individual to satisfy your sexual urges. Rather, seek consent; the freedom of choice. Upon reaching agreeable terms for intercourse (whether for mutual enjoyment or a monetary sum), weigh your own risk of acquiring a sexually transmitted disease.

But the question is not what will I let you do; it’s who is going to stop you? This payday weekend, remember that money is but a tool. It will take you wherever you wish, but it does not replace you as the driver. You can evade reality during liberty, but you cannot avoid the consequences when you stand in front of the sergeant major.

Failure to account for a risk is the definition of idiocy. Should you return on Monday morning a cripple, rapist, or herpetic, you will have made yourself a fool, thus committing the greatest evil upon yourself.

Then I will make my disdain for you clear: I will put you forward for NJP, and end my unwanted involvement in your affairs.

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where the hookers are, and where to get drunk cheap, and who sells meth the cheapest, and what a bunch of disappointing jerks you all are, and all that Gunny Highway kind of crap.

In the first place, that stuff bores me, and in the second, the company commander would crap a red star cluster if I went into it. He’s quite touchy about anything like that, especially since the last first sergeant got a DUI but they managed to cover it up. The company commander thinks he’s going to get a star, and he’ll put his mouth anywhere on anyone he thinks can get him one. And even though he preaches all the time about “do the right goddam thing!” he’s definitely not above completely lying to hide a mistake if he thinks he can get away with it.

Stay away from Antolini’s whore house. Yeah, sure, on the outside it looks just like a regular place, but the guys and girls in there are not your friends. This one time, I went there with a buddy. And we are in the bar waiting for our dates, and the bartender fixes me a highball of some sort of drink I’d never had. He makes them real strong, you can tell. Then something happened. I don’t even like to talk about it. I woke up all of a sudden on a couch. I woke and there’s some guy’s hand on my head. What it was, it was Mr. Antolini’s hand. He was rubbing my high-and-tight.

“What the hellya doing?” I yelled at him. Boy I was shaking like a madman. Whenever something perverty happens to me, I start sweating. That kind of thing has happened to me like 20 times since I was a private. So stay out of the whore house.

Now you might be tempted to walk over toward Broadway, just for the hell of it. Don’t. Jesus Christ, just don’t, okay? The liquor stores are full of Russian mafia guys who just can’t wait to steal your identity, see? I mean, full of them. Don’t even take your credit card with you, unless you want to be buying a goddam Russian oligarch’s girlfriend her next fake tits.

If you go to Hooters, that’s probably okay. But you have to stay out of the goddam bar next to Hooters. I went in there one time when I was an E-4, me and old DeShaun. Between he and I, we were pretty drunk, I don’t mind telling you, when this one goddam civilian starts trying to bother old DeShaun. Well, I got busted right in the goddam mouth but good. But old DeShaun put that guy right in the hospital. Which was too good for him. That guy should have wound up a lot worse than in the hospital. So stay out of the goddam bar next to Hooters.

Unless you want to wind up like the guy who had this job before me, wear a rubber. Jesus, okay? Not that it’s any of my business. But I don’t want it to have to become my goddam business either.

That’s all I’m going to tell you about. I could probably tell you what I am going to drink after I get home, or which gun I’m going to point at my temple and put in my mouth, and what happened to the money I saved for retirement, but I don’t feel like it. I really don’t. That stuff doesn’t interest me too much right now. If you want to know the truth, I don’t know what I’m even doing here. I really don’t.